Jesuit

Deciding that there was nothing more to be gleaned, Graham asked Flint to organise a thorough search of the lane leading to the clearing and to contact him when the pathology results were in. He said his goodbyes to Sallie and the crew and made his way back to the motorway.

On arriving back home, Graham let himself in and went into the kitchen where Bethany was preparing an evening meal. They kissed in greeting and Graham set about organising the drinks of tea and buttering of bread.

Over the meal, Bethany asked about the trip and if it had resolved anything.

“No, not really,” Graham said. “I am certain that it’s connected to the Kylie murder but there‘s no evidence available yet. The area was clean, just as with Kylie and there were no signs of a struggle. Another mystery, it seems.”

Three days later, Graham was in his office at Scotland Yard, trying to link the two recent killings, with the sparse information of the latest one hampering his attempts. All that there was to show, was the similar killing ground, the lack of struggle, the incidence of sexual activity, the relative neatness of the victims clothing, the suspicion of poison being administered and the failure to find out how. In the last case, even poisoning had not been immediately evident but Graham knew it would be so.

He opened the post on his desk and was pleased to find among it, the pathology report, together with the forensic report. There was also a memorandum from Sergeant Flint to say that the path to the scene had revealed nothing at all and that house to house inquiries had been carried out but had been fruitless.

One good thing to appear was the DNA result taken from the semen found inside the girl’s body and on her thighs. This could now be compared. Calling a WPC into the office, Graham instructed her to take the DNA report to the lab for comparison with the DNA record attached to the Kylie Johnson murder. He wanted the comparison to be done immediately and he told the constable to wait in the lab until it was ready. She was then to bring it straight back to him.

Graham turned his attention to the reports in front of him. Forensics had recovered hair samples from Debbie’s body; body hair and pubic hair that had tested to be from a male person. It had been possible to check these with the hair taken from Kylie’s dress and they had come up with patterns matching those of ‘Unknown assailant in the murder of Kylie Johnson.’

So, the same person had carried out the crime. It was pleasing to Graham that his hunch was right but he was still no nearer to solving the crimes. Pebbles and samples of earth had proved only that Debbie had taken the footpath, as suspected, and that she had veered from that to the clearing where she was found. Again, as with Kylie, there were no other traces of her killer.

The motive, too, was elusive. Clearly, there had been a sexual element but it could never be described as rape, in the true sense of the meaning. The victim here had appeared to be willing. Of course, in the Johnson case, the crime of sex with a minor had been ruled out. Robbery was simply not a factor.

Graham then turned to the pathologist’s report, knowing that it would yield little, if anything. Sure enough, the cause of death was diagnosed but not the method. A small amount of strychnine had been found in the blood stream — so it was murder — but even a small amount would be enough to generate a quick and agonising death. Again, there was no visible point of entry, as of a syringe. The tiny punctures that had been found were diagnosed as being from a flu jab and they were beginning to heal and fade.

Just then, there was a knock on the office door and the WPC entered, carrying a thin, buff coloured folder clutched to her chest. She handed it to Graham. “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes, WPC, and thank you,” said Graham, offering a weak smile, before opening the folder. As the officer left, he looked at the brief notes, which were largely couched in technical terms. However, pictures of the two sets of strands, set side by side, were shown on the last page, with a third picture showing one sample placed on top of the other. He didn’t need to read the result to know that they matched perfectly. The one on the left was taken from the hair strand found in the first murder while the one on the right was taken from the foreign hairs on Debbie’s body.

Graham leaned far back in his comfortable, padded chair, hands held behind his head as he studied the ceiling for inspiration. He had an unaccountably nervous feeling in his stomach. In both killings, no anger had been shown, nor was any force used. The girls were left fully clothed, even though sex had taken place with Debbie, but otherwise untouched. There seemed nowhere to start; nothing to get to grips with. He knew that more murders would be committed before the killer made the fatal error that nearly all do. The thought worried and sickened him.

Rising and going to the metal cabinet in a corner of the office, Graham rifled through the files until he found the Johnson and the Singleton documents. Taking them to his desk, he inserted the new documentation in, placing them in proper, neat order. He then began to sift through the information feeling there must be something; some small matter that he had overlooked. The clever bastard must have been too clever for his own good — mustn’t he? The thoughts were more in hope than certainty.

He decided to study the locations in which the murders had taken place. Could there be a link there? The first discovery was in Watford, in a meadowed area on the outskirts of the main town. What did it have in common with Penn? Both have a proud, historic past, but then so do many other towns and villages in Britain. Both have attractive surrounding countryside, again as do many others. Then, there are the churches. The splendid Holy Rood in Watford and St. Mary’s in Penn. What? What? The clue is there, but what is it? thought Graham. He racked his brains, reading and re-reading the files, desperately seeking a way into the cases.

An hour of deep concentration passed before Graham gave up. He rose from his seat and went to the door, peering at the team outside through the glass surround that framed his office.

Spotting Clive Miller leaning against a wall sipping a cup of hot coffee, he beckoned to him. Clive eased himself from the wall and hauled his big frame over. He was unmarried, even at the age of thirty-two, but had no shortage of female companions. They seemed to find his rather pugilistic features attractive and it also helped that he was a regular team member of the Met’s rugby union squad. He was a tough, dependable assistant to Sampler and at six feet, four inches in height, was handy to have around in dangerous situations.

“Yes, guv?” he enquired as he entered the office and was told to take a seat. He sat facing his chief across the desk, fully relaxed.

“Clive. As you know, I am involved in two murder cases at the moment. Cases that I have suspected to be linked.”

“Yes. Any progress?”

“Not much,” said Sampler, frowning. “The only satisfaction so far is that the latest DNA and pathology reports support my theory.”

Miller smiled. “Well. That’s good isn’t it? What you wanted?”

Graham’s frown deepened. “It’s good to be proved right, but that is all there is to it. I have racked my brain and read the files over and again but I’m blowed if I can find a tenable link, apart from the obvious.”

“Oh.”

Graham patted the two folders on his desk. “These are the files, Clive. I want you to have a go. See if you can see something I’m missing. This bastard will kill again, you can be sure of that,” he said with resignation.

Again, Sampler would be proved right, but not in the way expected.

CHAPTER FIVE

The church of St. Mary’s, Penn, was full to bursting for the funeral of the tragic Debbie Singleton. Flowers decked the coffin and covered the church exterior, all bearing sweet, poetic messages of condolence. The girl had been popular and the crime had shocked the village. The tears shed could have created a small river, such was the emotion engendered by the words of the parish priest, Father McGiven. Men, women and children wept as one.

The priest spoke words of compassion and forgiveness for the killer as well as extolling the virtues of the dead child. It was God’s responsibility alone to punish the sinner, which, at the day of reckoning, he would do. Any anger felt by the community must be curtailed. And there was anger — much of it. Prayer was the answer